Mission: Suicide
by Lily Lindsey-Aubery
Summary: Denethor, steward of Gondor, is weary of life. Unfortunately (or fortunately) his frequent attempts at suicide have all ended in failure. Rated T for violence and menace, but nothing more. This short story is funnier if you've seen the films. And yes, it is humorous, even though it starts out seeming sad. ;( Labelled complete, but I might make a few tweaks.


**Disclaimer: **Of course, I do not own any of these characters or places, etc. After all, this is fan fiction. So, you know, I stole it all. Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

'I am about to take my last voyage, a great leap into the dark.' -Thomas Hobbes

* * *

Denethor sat upon his throne in the long room in Minas Tirith. He often sat here, thinking of the hard life he had led. Sometimes he became so depressed that he wished he could just end it all. Who cared about Him, anyway? His favourite son, Boromir, was angry at him, and as for Faramir...

Denethor laughed mirthlessly. 'Faramir cares nothing for me, or for Gondor,' he thought bitterly. His mouth twisted into an angry sneer. 'Where is that sop, anyway?' He rose from his solitary seat and strode down the hall. Flinging the door open, he yelled, 'Faramir!' and kept yelling it until his youngest son appeared.

'What took you so long?' he asked irritably. 'You make me shout myself hoarse.'

'I'm sorry, father,' Faramir moped, exactly as if he wasn't. 'I was unsaddling my steed.'

'Lousy excuse,' snapped Denethor. 'I expect you to come when I call you!'

'What did you want me for?' asked Faramir wearily. He was rather used to this.

'I wanted to make sure you hadn't run off to call the Social Services,' replied his father.

'I would never do that!' Faramir said, though he had been thinking of doing it for some time.

Denethor surveyed him suspiciously. 'Well, you never know with kids these days,' he said.

!

The next day Boromir found his father sitting again in the throne room by himself. He was sniffling, and he held a handkerchief with which he dabbed his eyes periodically.

'My son,' he said, 'My life is not worth living. I plan to end all this pain; I am choosing death over this torture. Goodbye, Boromir, my only useful son, I'm leaving you forever. And, Boromir,' he added, as he turned to go, 'make sure that brother of yours doesn't run off.'

'Father,' said Boromir, who also was used to his father's oddity, 'what are you planning on doing? Surely you do not contemplate suicide!'

'That is exactly what I am contemplating!' snapped Denethor. 'And don't you try to stop me, young man, or you'll be coming with me.' He strode out of the room in search of a rope.

Boromir shifted uncomfortably. What should he do? 'I cannot let my father kill himself,' he decided, and turning to save his demented parent he found Faramir in the doorway.

Faramir shrugged as he gazed after Denethor. 'You'd make a better Steward, anyway,' he said, addressing his brother.

'How can you say that?' Boromir demanded angrily, pushing Faramir aside and striding past him. 'He is your father, and you owe him your respect.' He turned back towards Faramir, who was following him, and grabbed him by the shoulders. 'He may not be the wisest, but as my father, he will be honoured by me until I die.' Faramir watched him disappear down the corridor.

'There goes another nut,' he said aloud, shrugging again.

!

Boromir found his father in the kitchen. His search for a rope having been fruitless, Denethor had resorted to a kitchen knife. He was, when Boromir found him, perched upon the counter top amidst the horrified staff, holding a butter knife to his throat.

'Father,' said Boromir sternly, 'put down that knife.'

'I'll do nothing of the sort,' declared Denethor.

'Don't be a fool,' said Boromir, wresting the instrument of death from his father's grasp. 'Gondor needs you.'

Denethor sat back and dissolved into tears. 'You're right,' he sniffed. 'I cannot desert this city or this people. Lead me to the shrink.' Boromir lead him off to the royal psychiatrist, where the Steward was soon convinced that he should delay the ending of his life until a more convienant season.

!

'Boromir,' said his father to him one day, 'Elrond of Rivendell has called a meeting. He will not say why, but I have guessed it's purpose. It is rumored that the weapon of the enemy has been found.'

Boromir glanced sharply at Denethor. 'The One Ring. Isildur's bane,' he said uneasily.

'It has fallen into the hands of the Elves,' Denethor continued, lowering his voice to a whisper. 'Everyone will try to claim it: Men, Dwarves, Wizards. We cannot let this happen.' He frowned darkly. 'The thing must come to Gondor.'

Boromir shook his head. 'Gondor,' he repeated hesitantly.

'It's dangerous, I know,' said Denethor, clutching Boromir's arm in a frenzied manner. His eyes shone with a mad gleam. 'Ever the Ring will seek to corrupt the hearts of lesser men. But you, you are strong.' He let go of his son's arm. 'And our need is great,' he added after a moment. 'It is our blood which is being spilled, our people who are dying. Sauron is biding his time. He's making fresh armies. He will return. And when he does, we will be powerless to stop him. You must go.' Denethor leaned forward, the greedy gleam in his eyes brightening. 'Bring me back this mighty gift!'

Boromir was taken aback. 'No!' he said, regaining his equilibrium. 'My place is here with my people.' He began to walk away. 'Not in Rivendell.'

But after a bit of arguing, Denethor finally convinced his son. Boromir rode off towards Rivendell in the West, and Denethor returned to his throne.

But he was restless. Every day he paced the marble floor and worried about the ring. How would Boromir get it? He would fail, surely. Finally he couldn't stand the suspense any more.

'Faramir!' he screamed. 'Faramir!' His son moped into the room, his hands in his pockets.

'Yeah, what?' he asked.

'Oil, immediately!' cried Denethor, too distracted to lecture Faramir on respect.

'Oil?' asked Faramir. '?'

'Do it now, and stop that inane raising of your eyebrow.'

Faramir sauntered off to do his father's bidding, and returned fifteen minutes later with a jug of olive oil. 'Here,' he said, unceremoniously dropping it into Denethor' s lap.

'Ahaha,' Denethor cackled. He leapt up and headed towards the room which contained an extraneous altar for who know what. Faramir followed, curious.

'Hoohoo,' said Denethor. 'I always wanted to go out with a bang.' He clambered up onto the altar and began dramatically pouring the olive oil upon his head. 'Pity I didn't think of this sooner,' he gurgled (the oil was getting in his mouth).

'Eugh,' observed Faramir.

'Matches,' said Denethor. 'Confound it, where are some matches?' He glared at Faramir.

'Ahh!' exclaimed Faramir. 'Wait a minute, you're going to burn yourself?'

'Heheha,' laughed Denethor comfortably. 'Not quite. I have a little surprise for my complete extermination. You'll see. Matches! Oh, this will have to do.' He grabbed a torch from a convenient wall socket.

'Nooo!' yelled Faramir. 'Father, I can't let you do this!' he lamented. 'Boromir will kill me!'

'Oho,' said Denethor, turning upon him. 'So you want to stop me? Ha! Then you can die too.' With a sickening cackle he splashed the remaining oil on Faramir's head. Then he lifted the torch aloft. 'Prepare yourself! And die!' he screamed.

Faramir did prepare himself, but didn't obey the latter command so fully. He leapt out of the way of the descending torch just in time, much to Denethor's aggravation.

'Oh, forget it,' said Denethor, and lit himself up in flames. 'Hahahahahoohoo!' he screeched, jumping from the funeral pier wreathed in flames. He ran from the room and towards the immense drop from the rock of Minas Tirith.

Fortunately (or is this debatable?) he did not reach it.

'Curses!' he cursed. He had fallen into the pond at the foot of the white tree of Gondor. Faramir came out the door he had just exited and stared. The he fell into a violent fit of coughing, and left rather hurriedly.

'Ill have to try again.' Denethor banged his fist upon the fountain. 'Snap!'

!

Denethor did try again.

'But this time,' he thought, 'I will try another method.' However, he found that he was so busy that it took quite a while for him to get around to it. So when he finally did get to it, it was almost a month later.

Faramir entered the throne room one day to find Denethor rummaging through an old chest. The contents of this were strewn across the marble floor, and gave the throne room a very untidy appearance.

'What are you doing, father?' he asked. Sometimes he wondered if he should make that psychiatrist admit his father into Banwell; but then he always thought better of it. After all, he couldn't afford to get on his father's bad side . . . or at least a badder side than he was on already.

'I'm looking for a bottle,' said Denethor distractedly, 'A green bottle with a label which says "Do Not Ingest." It was here only last year. . .'

'What do you want a bottle for?' asked Faramir. 'To throw at someone?'

'Bah,' said Denethor. 'Do you ever think of anything seriously? I want to ingest it.'

'But you said the label said. . .' began Faramir.

'Exactly!' roared his father.

'Oh. Oh!' said Faramir, suddenly realizing the Steward's intent. 'Oh, come now, really, father,' he said, trying to be persuasive, 'You don't want to kill yourself. It isn't fair to Gondor!'

'Boromir has stopped me and fate has stopped me before, but I will not be stopped by the likes of you, Faramir,' declared Denethor. 'Where did I put it?'

Faramir decided to leave. Denethor would never find the bottle, anyway. He headed towards the door.

'Aha!' came a cry behind him. He whirled around, and saw his father, still sitting upon the floor, with his finger held aloft and the light of remembrance in his eyes. 'I left it on that shelf in my room, so it would be convenient,' he said. 'I'm going to go get it.'

'But- oh, um, but - no!' Faramir stuttered. He ran after his father, and they made their way down the winding corridors to Denethor's apartment.

'Ah, there it is!' said Denethor, heaving a sigh of relief. The green bottle was perched on a shelf high up in the wall. 'Now how to get it down?' he wondered.

'Don't do this, father,' begged Faramir urgently.

'I'll do as I please,' said Denethor, reaching for the bottle. 'Bah. I can't reach it. Hey, you're tall. Reach up and get it for me, that's a good boy.'

'I shan't,' said Faramir. 'So there.'

'Then you'll go to bed without dinner,' said Denethor triumphantly. This usually did the trick. And his threat did not fail him. Faramir reluctantly reached for the bottle.

'Ugh,' he said, straining to grasp it.

'Argh,' said Denethor, 'where is Boromir when I need him? Can't you do anything, Faramir?'

'Sorry, dad,' said Faramir.

'I'll get it down somehow,' declared the Steward. 'Hey!' he yelled for his servants. 'Come get down this bottle!'

It was done, and the bottle was placed in Denethor's hands at last. 'Ha! Now my time has come!' he said gleefully.

'Father, don't!' cried Faramir. 'Noooo!' Denethor lifted the bottle to his lips.

Then Faramir got an idea. 'Father, if you die, that jerk of a ranger will come and take over the kingdom. And you don't want that to happen!'

Denethor paused his death-seeking pursuits and thought about his son's statement. He hesitated. 'You're right,' he said at last. 'I guess I'll have to delay my expiration until that ranger is dead. Snap!'

!

Faramir was relieved, but his relief lasted only a few days.

'Faramir,' said his father, 'I want you to go kill that ranger.'

'Oh, but dad,' complained Faramir, 'I was going to play golf with Eomer today.'

'Too bad,' said Denethor. 'You'll have to delay that pleasure until your return.'

Faramir still hesitated. 'Do you really think we should kill him?' he asked. 'Why not just get him admitted to Banwell? That should do the trick!'

'Oh, that sounds fun,' said Denethor, his eyes gleaming with glee. Then his face fell. 'Gondor is not safe until he's dead,' he said decidedly.

Faramir knew it was no use arguing, but still, killing no mere ranger was not his idea of a picnic, so he decided he had better disappear. He took his band of men and headed into the wild, hoping that by the time his father found that he was disobeying orders he'd be out of the reach of Gondorian law.

!

Meanwhile, Denethor waited impatiently to end his life. 'I should have gotten a message by now saying the deed was done,' he thought to himself. 'What is that wretch of a Faramir doing? I think I'll go look in my crystal ball.'

Denethor's crystal ball wasn't actually a crystal ball. It in reality was one of the seven Palantirs, the balls in which you could see whatever you wanted to. It was rather like Galadriel's mirror, and some (mostly Dwarves) even rumored that Galadriel's mirror was actually a simple basin with a palantir in it covered with water. But those, I believe, were nothing but idle rumors. Anyhow, Denethor was quite fond of his, and liked to polish it up frequently. Now, looking in it, he demanded to see Faramir.

Faramir appeared in the cloudy depths of the sphere, in the lincoln-green clothes of a Gondorian ranger. He was standing on a ledge overlooking a waterfall, and seemed to be doing nothing at all.

'Aaaahhh!' screamed Denthor in frustration. 'That boy!' he fumed, stalking back and forth.

'Denethor,' the Palantir whispered. Denethor turned to it.

'Oh, it's you,' he said, glancing at the Eye which glared out at him. 'What is it?'

'Do not recall Faramir,' it hissed. 'I need him there. I have a special job for him.'

'What is that?' asked Denethor testily. 'I need him to kill that ranger.'

'That will be taken care of,' said the Eye. He had a voice very much like the Emperor in Star Wars. 'That ranger troubles me, too. But I'll deal with him later. Right now I need Faramir right where he is. I have reason to believe that the great Ring of Power is heading this way. Faramir will take it from it's bearer, and I will- I mean you, will be very powerful.'

The not uncommon gleam came again to Denthor's eyes. 'Muahahaha,' he agreed. 'Sounds like a good plan. Anyway, Boromir can take care of the ranger.' He left the Palantir upon its pedestal and returned to his throne, rubbing his hands together gleefully.

!

Faramir was at his very secretive cave at this point. He liked it quite a bit; it had all the modern conveniences, including running water. The only problem was the pests. Every once in a while a band of Haradrim would come by and he and his men had to shoot them up so they wouldn't spill the beans about the secret hideout. It was while carrying out this necessary task that he found the most unlikely creatures.

At first he thought they were Orcs. They certainly didn't look like Orcs, though they were short. But he knew of no other humanoid creature of such small stature. After questioning them, however, he discovered them to be Hobbits. He had never heard of Hobbits before. Oh, well, they were there, so he supposed it his duty to be nasty to them. He consequently shoved them into the deep dank cave and tormented them with questions for a while.

He didn't expect to learn anything of interest, and so was greatly surprised when they told him that they had traveled with his brother, Boromir.

'What?!' he said. 'I can't believe it! How's he doing? I haven't seen him for so long!'

'Um,' said one Hobbit, the fat one, who said his name was Sam, 'he was, well. . .'

'Oh, he was fine,' said the other, whose name was Frodo. Sam, the fat one, nodded his head vigorously.

'Oh, good,' said Faramir, and turned to his soldier, who was tapping on his shoulder urgently. 'What is it?' he asked impatiently.

'I just wanted to let you know,' said the tactless Gondorian ranger, 'that we just found Boromir's unique horn-like-no-one-else's in the river. So he must be dead, right?'

Faramir fell to his knees as if struck to the heart. 'No!' was his only comment. After that he fainted away completely.

!

'I don't have time for this,' said Denethor, pacing back and forth in front of his throne. 'I'll just have to depend on Boromir to do his job and kill the ranger. Ahem.' A soldier ran forward. 'Take this message to Boromir, Captain of Gondor, Fellowship of the Ring, Middle Earth.' He paused to choose his wording. '"Code: Kill ranger stop. Bring back the body stop. Urgent stop. Don't fail me stop. Denethor." That should do it. Dispatch that as soon as possible.' The soldier left with the note and Denethor made his way back to the kitchen.

'Hey, chef,' said he when he had reached his destination, 'where is that vat of oil for frying chicken in?'

'In the shadows to the left,' said the helpful cook. Denethor found it and began to empty the contents into a smaller pitcher. 'Bye-bye,' he said, heading back towards the funeral pier.

Once there he again poured oil over his head. 'This should have worked last time,' he said, 'except that stupid pool for watering the tree was in the way. I'll just try again.' He picked up a burning torch (lighted torches were always kept in the altar room, for times such as these) and re-lit himself. Again he rushed through the arched doorway and towards the end of the Minas Tirathical rock, carefully avoiding the watering pool (he noticed as he went by that the white tree had died, and thought it most likely due to the oil in it's watering pool). It was a long way, and he was getting hot. He ran as fast as he could.

Or as fast as he thought he could. He soon found he could run faster, because he did. He did because he was being chased.

Soldiers of Gondor rallied from all over the city, rushing to the aid of their hapless Steward. Denethor was getting old, and couldn't run as fast as he used to, and the fire brigade was gaining on him every step.

'Only... three... yards... more!' he panted, and leaped forward. But he was too late. There was a flash of white, and he found himself covered in foam to put out the flames. Slipping, he fell and skidded to a halt five inches from the edge of the precipice.

'Fools!' he cried, getting up and dancing in rage. 'Fools!'

The fire brigade, knowing they were not needed or wanted anymore, hastily departed, and Denethor, wreathed in foam instead of flames, was left to himself.

!

A minute after Faramir fell to the ground in that swoon of his, he was woken by the Gondorian ranger again.

'Can't you let me get any rest?' he shouted.

'Um, we found another,' said the ranger. 'It's out there now, sitting and singing.'

'Ugh, alright,' said Faramir. He stood up and went to the window. On a rock in the pool at the foot of the cliff sat a solitary figure, hunched over. It sang a fishing song, and seemed as harmless as a fly.

'Aw, how cute!' said Faramir. 'Where's that skinny Hobbit?'

'He's not that skinny, sir,' said Sam, coming up behind him, 'people just think he is.'

'By comparison,' agreed Frodo, who also appeared. 'Here I am.'

'Hey look, Mr. Frodo,' said Sam, 'there's that Gollum creature!'

'Shut up!' cried Frodo, pained. 'Now look what you did!' he added. Faramir's brow had lowered and he advanced towards them menacingly.

'You know that creature?' he asked. 'Good! Let me beat him up, then, for no reason!' He dashed out and grabbed poor Smeagol by the scruff of his neck. 'Muahahaha.' Insanity, it is said, ran in his family.

'That Hobbit,' declared Gollum, 'has the Ring of Power!'

'Why did you say that?' asked Faramir. 'If you hadn't told me, I would have never known! Now I'll take it.'

'We don't knows why we told mean man the Hobbitses has the precious,' he said. 'Oh, well, to late now.'

Faramir began to take the unfortunate Hobbits to Gondor, where his Sociopathic father was once more (or maybe not _once_ more) trying to kill himself.

!

Saruman the white was busy in his tower when he heard the sound of Trololo coming from his Palantir. 'Oh, a long-distance call is coming in,' he said. 'It must be Lord Sauron.' He went to his ball and uncovered it, and was rather disappointed to see that it was only Denethor.

'What do you want?' he demanded irritably. 'I'm busy!'

'I need some explosives,' said Denethor. 'Can you send a Berserker over?'

'How much will you pay me?' Saruman asked, after a moment of thought.

'Oh, I don't know; how does twenty-three Mithril bricks sound?'

'It's worth twice that amount and more, excluding transportation!' cried the wizard. 'You rob me!'

'Fine, I'll send over fifty,' said Denethor airily. 'Hurry; make it special delivery.' He hung up.

Saruman was astounded. 'What's he so desperate for explosives for, I wonder?' he thought. 'Oh, well; maybe he'll blow himself up. That would be convenient.' He had no idea how close he was to the truth.

!

Denethor fumed and fretted until the shipment arrived about ten days later. Seeing the Berserkers coming from a distance, he scurried through Minas Tirith to the city gate, and stood there to welcome the bearers of his precious explosives.

'Careful, now, careful,' he said nervously. 'Don't drop that! That's right. Slowly, now.' Once it was in the throne room he peremptorily sent away the Berserkers and eagerly ripped open the packages. Inside were several bottles of coarse black grains.

'"Keep out of reach of children,"' he read on the label. 'Good thing Faramir's not around. "Apply lighted match to activate." Sounds simple. Now where did I leave my matches?'

'Sir?' Denethor was interrupted by his manservant. 'You're wanted on the Palantir,' he said.

'Oh, it must be Lord Sauron,' said Denethor. 'I'll be there in a minute.'

!

It was Lord Sauron.

'Sorry, wrong number,' he hissed, and hung up. But Denethor stayed to polish his spherical gem again. To his surprise, he began to hear more sounds coming from it.

'Tell me,' it hissed. He recognized the voice; it was Sauron's.

'No!' squealed another voice, one which he was not familiar with.

'Hehehe, you cannot resist my power,' whispered the Eye, and the foreign voice gave a shriek.

'Oh, dear,' said Denethor. 'I'm intruding on a private conversation.' He quickly covered his Palantir with a dust-resistant cloth and headed back to his gunpowder.

Only to find the bottles broken and the precious powder spilled all over the floor.

'Ah!' he observed. Then he noticed a shadow slipping into deeper shadows at the end of the room. 'Who are you?' he cried. 'Come out!' There was no answer. 'Phantasmic presence, show yourself!' he called hoarsely. 'I am not afraid!'

A figure emerged from the deeper shadows. It was the child of a castle guard. He stepped shyly forward.

'How dare you!?' yelled the Steward. 'Did you do this?' He pointed at the mess.

'Yes,' admitted the urchin, and ducked just in time to avoid being hit by Denethor's fast-descending hand.

'Get out! And don't touch my stuff again!' Denethor yelled. The child obeyed with lightning speed, and Denethor turned back to his explosives. 'Where is that label?' he wondered. 'I can't remember how to explode this stuff!' He searched long, but in vain. 'I'll have to call Saruman up and ask him,' he decided, and headed to the Palantir Pedestal.

!

Meanwhile, Faramir was getting closer to Minas Tirith.

'Dad's going to be so proud of me,' he thought happily. 'I have not failed him. Now maybe he'll let me go surfing with my friends.' Denethor had forbidden this excursion, due to Faramir refusing to cut his hair. Faramir thought that perhaps if he got on his father's good side, this would be forgiven. If he had a good side, which remains to be seen.

Finally the great Gondorian city came into view. 'We're almost there,' he said encouragingly to the Hobbits, who were wearily lagging behind.

'Why don't you carry the ring, you lazy ranger?' asked Sam. 'Can't you see Mr. Frodo's deathly tired? It's such a burden.'

'Oh, I can see how sick it made him,' said Faramir wisely. 'I don't want to get as zooey as he is.'

!

Denethor pulled off the cloth on the pedestal and reeled backward in horror. 'What is happening?' he asked. 'Soldiers! Hey!'

A dozen men answered his call. 'What is it, my master?' the captain asked.

'It's a disaster,' moaned Denethor. 'My precious Palantir is gone!'

'Oh, the ball?' asked the Captain. 'You can go, men; we're good here.'

'What do you mean, "We're good here?" My precious spherical intercommunicative device is gone!'

'No it's not,' contradicted the Captain. 'We just borrowed it.'

'Borrowed it?' the Steward gasped.

'Yes; we needed another ball for our bowling game.'

'And you. . .' Denethor began, becoming more horrified by the moment.

'We used the crystal ball.'

'But it's too slippery to. . .'

'So we carved holes in it.'

'You WHAT?'

'We carved finger holes in it, to hold it more easily. It worked great! You should try it sometime-' The Captain's words ended with a shriek as he crashed to the ground unconscious from the blow from Denethor.

'Where is it?' he screamed.

'Here it is, sir,' said his manservant, entering with the spherical intercom. It did indeed have circular dents hollowed out in it, which gave the images reflected in it a rather gruesome appearance.

'Oh, dear,' said Denethor.

!

In walked Gandalf.

'Boromir's dead,' he said.

Denethor fainted. Gandalf splashed water over him. 'I never could get used to breaking things to people gently,' he explained. 'Now, Denethor, here is Pippin. He will do whatever you tell him to.'

'I will?' asked the Hobbit, and Denethor recognized his voice as the one shrieking in the Palantir.

'Why?' asked Denethor, rather dazed.

'I don't know. But he says he will.'

Just then, a horse walked in, dragging Faramir behind it, stuck with arrows so that he looked like a porcupine.

'Perfect,' said Denethor. 'Just in time. Now, then, Pippin, you can go get me some oil. . .'

!

Ten minutes later, Peregrin Took stood before an altar on which Faramir lay and Denethor stood.

'Give that to me!' cried Denethor, grabbing the pitcher of oil from the Hobbit. He poured it over himself and his son. 'Kill two birds with one stone,' he explained to the confused Pippin. Then he grabbed a torch from the wall and. . .

'Nooo!' cried Pippin. 'Don't!'

'I shall, too!' cried Denethor. 'There'll be no one to stop us, this time.'

'You shall not passssss!' roared Gandalf, thundering in and knocking Denethor to the altar. The flames leapt up, and Denethor was once more engulfed in fire. Faramir, who was getting used to his father's methods, quickly rolled off the altar and onto the floor, where Pippin put out the remaining flames which still clung to him. However, Denethor could not be stopped. Descending from the pier in one bound, he dashed through the door and down the long path to the precipice.

'Just a little bit farther, just a little bit farther,' he chanted to himself. Behind him, Gandalf and Pippin watched helplessly, horrified.

'So passes Denethor, the last Steward of Gondor,' said Gandalf serenely.

'He was a lousy Steward, anyway,' said Faramir.

!

'I made it!' screached Denethor, leaping finally off the edge of the precipice. Down a thousand feet he fell, and glanced below him, wondering how much further he had to fall. . .

SPLOSH!

He had fallen into the inner-city swimming pool. He rose to the surface, sputtering.

'Snap!'

!

Oh, and concerning that which remained to be seen: Was there a good side to Denethor, Steward of Gondor?

No.

No, there wasn't.

* * *

You don't have to read this. It's not part of the story. It's just my random ramblings.

**Special Thanks:** To those who commented/are commenting/will comment on this story, for their encouragement and support. And inspiration. Etc. And to J. Tolkein, for his epic story; and to Peter Jackson, and co. for their excellent adaption. Any how, reviews are awesome! So comment.

**Special Note:** A sequel is coming! Please keep an eye out for it. I'm currently planning to title it: (drum roll)

MISSION: SURVIVAL

Great name, I know. Anyway, if you like this story, look out for it's follower. And maybe even a prequel. Who knows?

The crazy authoress,

lilylol

Oh, and. . .please review? :D

P.S. Sneak Peak: Mission: Survival might just include everyone's favourite Captain of Gondor, and it might just include everyone's favourite Elf. Who knows what could happen? Anyway, if you have something or someone in particular you want in the sequel, comment or PM me and say so. Thanks!


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